


stupid gallantry

by romans



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romans/pseuds/romans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A boxing lesson. A dancing lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stupid gallantry

"Arms up," Max says, tapping her elbows to demonstrate. She raises her spindly arms a little higher, fists balled in front of her face. They're both too thin, sticks for arms and sharp-bladed shoulders. Her breath clouds in the thin basement air. Mama is being stingy today, with heat and food and words. 

"Turn your fists so they face each other," he says, "and bend your knees a little. Good." 

Liesel giggles, arms wavering, as she complies. She feels off-balance and silly. Max grins at her, a quick flash of white, and nudges her right foot out with his own. Something shifts, and the ground solidifies underneath her. 

"I hear that you've fought before," he says. "Did you win?" 

"Yes," Liesel says, "I made Tommy Müller cry. Did you fight?" 

The smile flashes again. "All the time," Max says, mirroring her stance. His knuckles are red and rough. She hadn't noticed them before. 

"Did you win?" she asks. 

"Most of the time," Max says. "If you drop your arms like that you're going to get punched in the face."

Liesel raises her arms again. 

"Now, move forward," Max says. "Feet before fists. Plant your right foot and then step forward on your left."

"I don't feel like this is a good way to fight," she says. 

"You'll get it," he says. He bobs forward, suddenly, and dances away from her gracefully. 

"Come on," he says, "Arms up, left foot, right foot. It's like dancing." 

"I haven't danced," Liesel says. Her mother had never taught her to dance, and she couldn't imagine Mama dancing. Papa probably liked to dance, she thought. Maybe Mama danced with him when no one was looking. 

"Arms up," he says, "Left, right, and back." Max moves so that he's standing next to her. He counts, one, two, three, back, one, two, three, back, and they dance across the narrow basement, side by side, fists up. Dancing their defiance of the distant Führer, of the flags fluttering outside, of the cold and the whole mad world.

"This time throw a punch with your right hand," Max says. "Turn your wrist, like this." He dances forward, jabs the air in front of him, darts back. Liesel imitates him, clumsily. 

"Arms!" he says. "Imagine you're hitting Tommy Müller," he says. Liesel thinks of Tommy Müller's stupid face and steps out, foot dragging. Her fist shoots out almost of its own accord, thrown forward by her body. 

"The Mayor," she says, bringing her fist back up to her face. Max holds his hands up in front of her. "This is the Führer's face," he says, waving his left hand, "and this is his ass," waving his right. Liesel giggles, and steps left, drags right, jabs at his hands, chases him around the basement. It's warm, now. 

Something clatters upstairs and Max drops his hands just in time for Liesel's fist to catch him square on the jaw. They both yell, surprised, and she jerks her hand back to rub her knuckles. Max has no padding at all. He's still skin and bones and feathers. He rubs his jaw, smiling, and Papa's accordion starts singing above them. 

"Enough fighting," Max says. "You make a promising brawler, fräulein." 

"I'm sorry I hit you," Liesel says. He laughs. 

Papa is playing a waltz on his accordion, the same one he had played while the bombs fell. 

"Let's dance, Liesel," Max says. "If you can fight, you can dance. Just promise me that you won't step on my feet." He holds his hands out, wiggles his fingers like a street brawler inviting a fight. 

"It's just the same," he says. He takes her by the hands, and then he doesn't dance at all. Not properly. They spin around and around in place, whirling across the tiny floor, and laugh until they fall over. 

The music stops, and Papa comes down into the cellar to find them sprawled on the ground, red-faced and happy.

"See?" Max says, lying on his back on the floor, "Easy."


End file.
